X-Men: Underneath His Skin
by BedazzledTurtle
Summary: With the looming threat of the Mutant Control Act, America is on the verge of a full on human-mutant civil war. In the midst of such chaos, a new addition to the X-Men will teach Northstar the true meaning of strength, love and trust. Loosely based off events of Earth-616 and Earth-811. M/M, slash, Northstar/OC.


_Hello! This story is completely AU, although loosely based off Earth-616 and Earth 811, which is basically the Days of Future Past timeline. This story will contain mature subject matter and homosexual themes. Don't like, don't read. On another note, this is my first fanfic, so I really hope I'm doing the canon characters justice._

_Please read and review, as it pretty much keeps my muse going!  
_

_Quinn Brady and Jessie Marlowe belong to me; all other characters, as well as familiar themes and events, belong to Marvel._**  
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* * *

**Chapter 1: Yellow Eyes **

The alleyway was drenched in darkness, its eerie silence acting as a cloak to the commotion of the hustling and bustling New York City streets. Everything seemed quite ordinary, but a pair of glowing yellow eyes, fixed on the backdoor to Hope's Diner, threatened to change all of that.

The eyes were unmoving and the mouth, hidden by the shadow of a gray hood, was etched in a thin, expressionless line. A body was crouched on the dumpster; it seemed human enough, but a thick, scaly red tail was wrapped around equally scaly, equally red, bare feet.

Quinn Brady was the name of this strange creature, but after so many years on his own, if uttered, the name would have felt foreign to his ears. The lonely man did not move a muscle as a group of rowdy drunkards came strolling out from the diner's main entrance, nor did he move when he heard them walking his way. Drenched in the complete shadow of the alley, he was unseen to the human eye.

He was waiting for a particular woman to walk through the backdoor, reserved solely for the few employees of the rickety diner. If she stuck to her usual routine, the nameless waitress would be coming out with the trash – and essentially Quinn's dinner – in a matter of minutes.

Patient, motionless and on the verge of famished, the half-man, half-snake waited. It was all he could do in such dangerous times; looking the way he did, if he were to walk into the diner and order food himself, it would easily be the equivalent of a death wish.

The first sign of movement from the snake-man came fifteen minutes after the drunken group had disappeared towards their next Saturday night adventure. His tail twitched and his ears perked as slurred words managed to reach them.

"What are ye' doin' man?"

Small sensory pads scattered across his skin had detected that the man was close – a few feet, but by then it was too late.

"Wait a minute. You're a – you're a – a mutie!"

Quinn could have had the time to react, but he chose not to. His eyes darted from the door to the gruff face of the stranger.

The first blow to his face cut the wind right out of him.

He fell to the dirty asphalt ground, arms braced in front of him as if to form a sort of shield. He could have easily defended himself – the venom burnt in his gums, but he couldn't bring the muscles to constrict. He couldn't allow himself to release the substance that had hurt so many innocent people in the past.

Why couldn't he do it? Just one shot and the man would be howling in pain... Long enough for Quinn to snake his way out from under him.

He couldn't do it, not when he'd seen the pain in the eyes of the innocent. He wouldn't wish that on his worst enemy – and this man, this drunken fool, he wasn't an enemy. He was just afraid – afraid of what he couldn't understand.

Quinn did not do anything to defend himself, instead letting the blows impact with his flesh and bones as though he'd deserved every ounce of pain that soared down his spine, to his gut, in every single fiber of his being.

"Fuckin' mutie!"

He was...

"...vermin Like you don't deserve te' live..."

..going to...

"Freak!"

..die here...

"You let him go, right now!"

...all alone... Wait – what?

The sharp, feminine voice had cut through Quinn like the fanged canine that had nicked his lip, a result of the last blow he'd received to the side of the face. Both he and his assaulter glanced over to the sound of the voice, the action made a lot more difficult on Quinn's end due to his position flat on his back, one eye already beginning to swell shut.

The drunk man chuckled, leaving Quinn behind and looking the girl up and down, deflowering her on the spot.

Blood, mixed with his own venom, trickled down Quinn's chin as he attempted to sit up, his eyes burning daggers in the direction of the drunk.

_Take one step closer..._ were Quinn's angry – and slightly fuzzy – thoughts. His eyes darted towards the drunk's new target and a new anger stirred deep in the pit of his aching stomach.

The young waitress who'd unknowingly fed him his meals for the past two weeks was now rooted to the spot, receiving a series of drunken swear words, quickly followed by slurred threats.

"Damn mutie lover... Damn whore... I oughta show you what filth like you–"

The words were so foul, so degrading, so infuriating... When the man made a move and reached out for the waitress, Quinn had had enough. In one swift motion he'd hopped to his feet, ignoring the pain pounding in his head.

At his fullest height, Quinn was taller as his assaulter; an astounding six feet and three inches, and although he hadn't eaten in _days_, he also happened to be in better shape. He was the one with the upper hand, and with rage evident in his eyes, Quinn grabbed the back of the drunk's coat and slammed him against the brick wall.

"Call her that again," Quinn hissed dangerously, "and I swear to God, I'll hurt you."

The assaulter shoved at the snake-man, torn between panic and disgust. "I ain't doin' nothin', you foul..."

The muscles around the tiny sacs just above his sharp, canine teeth constricted, releasing a jet of venom, aimed straight for the drunk's hands. The venom reacted with the skin almost instantaneously, the pink flesh sizzling as it burnt away, leaving behind two ugly, charred holes.

"What did ye' do te' me, damn mutie?!" the drunk roared, his face constricted with pain. It did the trick though. Seconds later, he was stumbling out of the alley, swearing that he would be calling the MRD on him. "They'll take care of ye' foul mutie ass!"

Quinn scoffed. He was willing to bet on that one.

He rubbed the side of his aching jaw, feeling himself sway slightly as dizziness threatened to take over. The adrenaline was leaving his system, and for a terrifying moment, he realized he couldn't move an inch.

His eyes glanced back to the terrified waitress – he hadn't moved, her eyes fixed on him.

It was as though the unmoving green orbs were burning his skin, and he couldn't take it anymore. He crouched, readying himself for a jump – he needed to go... He needed to... He couldn't...

The nameless waitress gasped, but he wasn't aiming to jump at her... He wouldn't hurt her...

He needed to go. Perhaps he could make it back to his makeshift home before the full extent of the beating sent him into the spiraling darkness...

Before he could make his escape, he felt his legs give out underneath him. He fell onto the cold, hard asphalt once more, eyes unable to stay open much longer. He wasn't sure if it was real, or only a hazy figment of his imagination... But the words uttered from the woman standing over him did not go unheard: "Thank you."

Quinn was out cold a split-second later.

* * *

Jean-Paul Beaubier sighed, a pale hand with slight fingers brushing through a short mass of black hair, streaked with silver and white.

It was strange being back here after almost five years. So much had changed; his former teammates had aged, his former students had grown up, some had left, but some had stayed to teach the brand new generation of mutants that had found its way to Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning.

Jean-Paul himself had found his way back, although it wasn't entirely by choice.

After the sudden death of the Professor almost a month ago, Logan had traveled north into Canadian territory in order to whisk him away from his small, mundane life as the owner of a small sports shop. With the threat of a full on war between mutants and humans, they needed all hands on deck; and thus Northstar had come out of his peaceful retirement.

It was quite the change of pace, too. Already he was diving head-first into a pile of work that needed to be graded. Whoever said that teaching the underclassmen about economics was an easy task needed to be shot dead.

Or, at the very least, very badly wounded.

The thought had yet to leave his mind when a soft knock on the door to his office snapped him back to reality.

"Come in, the door is open." Jean-Paul said, his French-Canadian accent a lot thicker than it had been the last time he'd been in America.

A pretty brunette peaked her head into the room, brown eyes looking both exhausted and excited.

"Sorry to bother you, JP." Kitty Pryde said with an apologetic smile, inching into the room and clasping her hands together behind her back. "A couple of us are going into New York City later this afternoon for some retail therapy... and uh, we wanted to know if you wanted to tag along – you could use a break..."

Jean-Paul pursed his lips, dropping the red pen he'd been twirling between careful fingers. With a speed that was beyond anything human, the young man was standing in front of the petite woman, reaching just below six feet.

"Do I look that bad?" he asked with a smirk.

"Well... you know, we're all hanging by a thread. If it wasn't for coffee..." the young woman trailed off, suddenly looking rather sheepish.

"...we'd all be as good as corpses. Yeah, I know." Jean-Paul sighed.

Senator Robert Kelly had made it clear from the day he'd walked into office that he was standing on a firm anti-mutant platform, thus earning himself quite a few nasty enemies on the mutant front. One day, a little over six months ago, he'd announced his backing of the Mutant Control Act – three days later, on national television, he was murdered.

The assassination of Senator Robert Kelly had all but ravaged the city; fear and hatred had led to full on anti-mutant hysteria, and the consequences were simply dreadful. In the last month and a half, seven mutants had been attacked – some in broad daylight.

Professor Charles Xavier was one of them.

Of course, the threat brought on by the prospect of the Mutant Control Act was also keeping the X-Men quite busy, especially political activist Hank McCoy, and school headmistress Jean Grey.

At first, some had believed that the idea of registration had died with its primary supporter – but with recent events, politicians were more adamant than ever to make it a reality. Humans were ruthlessly determined to weed out "the mutant problem", and it was terrifying the crap out of Jean-Paul and the rest of the X-Men...

Not to mention draining their energy levels dry. They were _always_ out on a mission of sorts – and when they weren't, they were stuck grading midterm papers.

"Alright, count me in; spending some time away from the school sounds lovely." Jean-Paul said after a short moment's consideration. He didn't give his stack of paperwork a second glance, knowing that if he did, he would be compelled to finish it.

* * *

Jean-Paul had to admit, a day shopping in New York City was a great way to release some of the tension that had built up over the last couple weeks.

They'd even made the time to catch a movie at the theater, which Kitty and the latest addition to the school, Jessie Marlowe, were currently raving about.

"I don't know – I mean sure, it was a great movie... but can't they just leave the classics alone?" Jessie asked with a shrug, fingering a long, dark brown lock of hair.

"But you have to admit," Kitty argued, "Jeremy Renner makes for a sexy Hansel."

Jean-Paul grinned, silently agreeing.

It was already half past eleven when they made their way into Hope's Diner, but Bobby Drake had insisted that he was _starving_ – apparently theater popcorn could only do so much. The place looked very Retro, with its black and white tiles, a dark wooden counter and red leather booths. 70's music was playing in the background, and upon glancing at the source, Jean-Paul noted that the diner even had a Jukebox; the place really looked as though it was straight out of a _Grease_ movie.

"Let's grab a corner booth," Sam Guthrie suggested, nodding towards an empty space near the large windows.

No one argued, making their way towards the table and taking a seat. Sam, Bobby and Alex on one side, with Jean-Paul and the two ladies on the other.

"They did the same thing with Snow White – the one with the Twilight girl – and they completely botched it!" Jessie, quite expressive and way too stubborn for her own good, was still arguing her point of view.

"Well, Kristen Stewart isn't exactly the greatest actress in the world, so it's understandable..." Kitty giggled. "Alright – how about this? If you had to pick one fairytale you'd like to see on the big screen, which one would it be?" she asked the group in general.

Jean-Paul leaned back into his seat, a grin forming on his lips as Bobby's jokes and the gang's laughter filled his ears. For a moment, he let his eyes wander.

The diner was practically empty. A gruff middle-aged man was seated furthest away from them, reading what appeared to be yesterday's paper; a young woman had her nose in a history book, a coffee sitting on the table next to her pile of notes. The most noticeable patrons were loud, drunken men were making fools of themselves at the counter, flirting shamelessly with the poor waitress.

At the sight of Jean-Paul and the other X-Men, she made a beeline for them, seeming quite grateful to have something to do other than be flirted with by a bunch of drunk frat boys.

Jean-Paul glanced back at the group; only then did he realize that they had long since stopped talking about the movie.

Bobby was smirking, a chunk of ice in the palm of his hand molding itself to form an ice sculpture, resembling an icy Scott Summers. Alex and Sam, both on either side of Bobby, laughed.

"You forgot the stick he has up his ass," Alex commented, earning a laugh from everyone around the table.

The pleasantries were enough to make Jean-Paul forget – if only for a little while – about the work he had waiting for him back at the school. He allowed himself to laugh with his great group of friends, even if it was at the expense of their serious leader.

The laughter died down almost instantaneously when the waitress found herself at their table, handing over six tattered menus. She was blonde, with plump lips, green eyes and a flawless complexion. Jean-Paul could have sworn Bobby, Alex and Sam were swooning.

"Hello, I'm Chandra – can I get you your drinks?"

Jean-Paul, Kitty, Bobby, Alex, Sam and Jessie each gave their drink order. Chandra nodded, her pen working furiously to catch everything that was being said.

The waitress smiled, although it wavered uncertainly when her eyes fell on the tiny ice sculpture still present on the table. She eyed the six mutants sitting around the booth, her expression suddenly frightful. "I'll be... right back with your drinks." she said before walking away, her pace suspiciously quick.

"Would you quit it already?" Kitty snapped in Bobby's direction, giving him a death glare. "That woman totally saw you! God! Can't we do anything _normal_?"

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth together. He really hated when this kind of this happened.

"What kind of food does this place have?" he asked in an attempt to lighten the mood. He had come here to forget about the human-mutant conflict, and although it had worked for the better part of the afternoon and into the evening, he felt as though he was right back at square one.

"Guys, the waitress is–" Jessie began, but she didn't have time to finish her warning, for Chandra suddenly burst through the double doors leading to the kitchen, sprinting towards them, her face ashen with fear.

"You guys are – are mutants, right?" she hissed upon reaching the corner booth, her eyes focused on Bobby.

The six members of the X-Men eyed each other, suddenly wary. Bobby looked guilty.

"I won't tell anyone... but I need your help. Something happened outside – he's – there was a fight... This man... he had bright yellow eyes... He was attacked and I – I don't know – I just... I think you should come with me."

A few French cuss words escaped Jean-Paul's thin lips. _Make that eight attacks_.

The six mutants were on their feet in a matter of seconds.

"Maybe we should just give up on normalcy altogether." Kitty quipped, although her tone held less animosity this time. Jean-Paul glanced her way, seeing the worry in her eyes.

"Should we call the school and–" Jessie began, suddenly looking pale. She wasn't technically a member of the X-Men; she didn't have any cool powers like Bobby's ice manipulation or Alex's energy blasts. She was an Empath, working in the background as the school guidance counselor.

"We'll be fine," Alex said dismissively.

"Maybe you should call them, Jessie. Let Hank know we're coming in with an injured mutant." Jean-Paul added.

Jessie looked relieved. "Alright." she said.

They followed the waitress into the kitchen and through the back door, finding themselves stepping into the alleyway between the diner and the neighboring building.

"There, on the ground." Chandra breathed shakily, pointing to the motionless shape of a man lying in the very middle of the alley, a few feet from the dumpster. "He did something to the guy that attacked him... I – I think he saved my life."

Kitty was the first one to approach the crumpled man. With careful hands, she turned him around so that he was facing up. Her back was to the rest of the group, hiding the surprised expression that crossed her face.

He was scaly and red. But more importantly, he was bruised, bloody and in need of immediate medical attention – at least, Kitty figured as much with the way he was barely breathing, his arm twisted in a way that was definitely not natural.

"We need to bring him back to the Mansion." Kitty whispered.

Sam stepped forward and Jean-Paul mimicked the movement, wrapping a careful arm around the unconscious man's middle, the gray fabric of his sweatshirt doing little good to hide the shape of small spikes trailing down his spine. With a slight twist of his mouth, Jean-Paul had to readjust his position so that the spikes did not dig into his arm.

"Got him?" Sam asked.

"Yes." Jean-Paul replied.

"Don't step on his tail." Bobby added.


End file.
